Her Storm
by Leigh Adams15
Summary: He hadn't expected this.


**Title**: Her Storm (1/1)

**Author**: Leigh Adams

**Characters**: Harry Potter/Pansy Parkinson

**Rating**: PG

**Word Count**: 1,026

**Summary**: He hadn't expected this.

**Author's Notes**: This was written as part of my 2010 Christmas drabble meme. The lyrics found within come from "Sleeping With Ghosts" by Placebo.

* * *

It had been storming the day she left.

Harry hadn't been prepared for any of this. When he'd killed Voldemort, he had assumed that the guilty parties would be appropriately punished, the reparations paid to those who had lost loved ones in the conflict, and life would resume as it was supposed to be—without the threat of a monomaniacal half-breed, hell bent on ruling the world.

There was no way he could have predicted what happened after. In reality, though, he shouldn't have been surprised. The Ministry had never been a body to rationalize and act justly, and with the state of demagogy in the wake of Voldemort's demise, they acted even more rashly in the name of 'justice.'

What the Wizengamot called trials could barely be defined as such. It was more of an opportunity to state the accused's crimes, hear brief testimony from both sides, then decide how long of an Azkaban sentence was necessary. It was _pathos_ justice in its most basic form. The public was hungry for retribution, and the wave of anti-pureblood sentiments was strong.

_**This one world vision **_

_** Turns us in to compromise**_

The trial commenced with the expected suspects: Alecto and Amycus Carrow, Augustus Rookwood, Rodolphus Lestrange. Yaxley, Avery, Crabbe, Goyle—all were swiftly found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment. Lucius Malfoy had been put to trial, as well as Draco, but the Wizengamot ruled leniently thanks to Harry's testimony.

But on the second week of trials, a face was brought forth that Harry had never expected to see.

Pansy Parkinson.

The dark prisoner's robes hung loosely on her, as if someone had inadvertently given her ones that were a few sizes too large for her. Her hair had grown longer since he'd last seen her and now hung past her shoulders in a glossy black wave. Her normally clear blue eyes were shot with red, as if she'd been crying for hours, but her expression was still the same; she was still the haughty, entitled princess she'd always been, even when on trial for war crimes.

_**What good's religion **_

_** When it's each other we despise?**_

She had sat there and listened as the court reporter read out the charges against her: illegal use of the Cruciatus curse, the aiding and abetting of known war criminals, and the intent to overthrow the Ministry of Magic and Her Majesty's government.

It didn't matter to the Wizengamot that she'd only cast the Cruciatus under direction of the Carrows, nor that she was innocent of the charges being brought against her. It didn't matter that she had been recently orphaned. Her father—a known Death Eater—had died that day at Hogwarts, and she was being charged in lieu of him. The Wizengamot saw a responsible, of- age witch who was a known pureblood enthusiast and the child of Death Eaters.

That wasn't what Harry saw. Even as much as he hated her, he didn't see a criminal. He saw a scared girl who was completely and utterly alone, without friends or family there for support.

The only time her composure wavered was when the Chief Mugwump stood to read the verdict.

_"The Wizengamot finds Pansy Morgana Parkinson guilty of all charges, and therefore sentences her to imprisonment in Azkaban to last no more than five years."_

Harry had pitied her then.

_**Damn the government**_

As a junior Auror, it had fallen under his duties to help escort the newest wave of prisoners out to the lonely fortress in the North Sea. The island was completely unreachable by magical purposes, and therefore it was necessary to take a five-hour boat ride to Azkaban.

Harry had never seen the seas as angry as they were that day. The rain lashed against the side of the boat, and casting charms to stay dry soon became a losing battle. The waves crashed into them, tossing the large vessel about as if it were a dinghy, and not long had passed before Harry was fervently longing for the warmth of Grimmauld Place—and Kreacher's warm French onion soup.

Throughout the trip, his gaze lingered on the small figure at the end of the bench. There was no need to shackle her to the floor; there was nowhere for her to go, after all. The Aurors had her wand, and if she tried to escape, only certain death by either drowning or hypothermia awaited her. She looked even smaller than she had at her trial, if that was even possible.

When they finally arrived at the foreboding prison, the captain lowered the anchor and moored the boat to the rickety old dock. One by one, guards descended down from Azkaban to retrieve the new arrivals, their hoods drawn up in defense against the cold.

There was a sudden lurch of movement, and Harry immediately whipped his wand out, searching for the possible threat. But it was only Pansy, in a tangle of robes on the floor of the boat. He could hear the laughter coming from her fellow prisoners and his colleagues, but he ignored them all as he sheathed his wand and crossed the deck to help her up.

_**Damn the killings**_

When she looked up at him, he was taken aback by the storm of emotions in her clear gaze.

_Distrust. _

_ Anger. _

_ Disgust. _

_ Hate._

He knew he deserved every bit of it. He had had the opportunity to save her from this—and he hadn't said a word. Why would she accept his help now?

As calmly as she could manage, she picked herself up off the deck, hands going through the unconscious movements of smoothing out her drenched robes. Her posture was regal, her demeanor was ever as haughty as it had been as she let the guard take her by the elbow and guide her to the island. Her small, feminine silhouette was out of place against the harsh, unforgiving rock—her new home. It was certainly a sharp cry from the ease and privilege of Parkinson Manor.

She never looked back, but she didn't have to.

Her eyes would haunt his dreams. Of _that_, he was certain.

_**Damn the lies**_


End file.
